Treatment for a film about

visiting the television section of a large department store.

Kevin's being helpful.

"I can show you if you’d like".

So we'll follow Kevin, he's being helpful.

I lazily wonder exactly why they've decided to carpet this particular part of the shop, whether the rest of the shop is carpeted as well but I refuse to look. What’s the underlay was that made it feel so comfortable? I can feel my toes.

“So it really depends what you’re willing to spend.” Helped Kevin.

It’s 2014, around the end of November families gathered around the ceremonial feast.
One male, usually the sire to many of the group begins the traditional humming as is common in the Northern Americas. He becomes large and more impressive, getting bigger and better with humming and enlargement.

Whilst the paterfamilias takes care of the bass and baritone the chitlins vibrate at a higher frequency. Both the children and the pork guts are humming in sync. Danny, 11 is hitting a C and Danni, 15 is hitting a G and the pork guts hit a higher note of unspecified alphabet.

One minute passes.

Reaching to join hands with her Husband the Mother to the group begins to grow larger and more impressive, demonstrating power and able body strength. It’s 2014 and the end of November.

We’re under the table now, away from the action. The sound grows in volume and intensity, unaffected by the baffle of the lace table cloth, the humming simply resonates through the table legs, along turned lions shins to griffin’s feet made from brass and wheels.

Turning upwards to the the tables edge we see a hand, an old right hand of an old woman. A Grandmas hand (in the style of Bill Withers) blindly searching quickly finds the button, smaller than a big red button, bigger than a pea and some gas and dry ice is released from both the Griffins feet under the table and a tiny pipe in the centre of the table underneath the chitlins, Danni, 15, gasps a bit but keeps humming a G.

In practiced order and timing the family one by one cease to hum. As his C ends Danny brings an hush to the table.

The mashed potatoes wobble slightly out of pride.

Now a Grandmas left. Searches and finds the second concealed button. A distant bell made from pure glass lattice work chimes in the depths of the house and without further-a-do the Chef (Kevin) enters from the side hatch.

A magnificent Horn of Plenty in tow.

The Horn sits a top a magnificent oaken tablet now placed in the centre of the table. With trepidation Chef Kevin fingers the crust, glazed and cooked to a crisp pastry finish. It’s awesome.

As if rendered the horn seems unreal, as it hovers ever so slightly above the board the shadows don’t really make sense, the lightings off and we aren’t totally sure about it.

Cracking through the crust with his thumb Kevin opens it up. Delicious steam, a little dry ice and a tiny bit of heat haze precede a flurry of buy one get one free coupons. A flurry turns to heavy flow, 50% off, Two for the price of one, Cheapest one free. Fluttering down its Crystal Maze, grab them whilst you can. Lowest prices, this holiday season.

Dad smiles, everyone grins.

We’d both been watching silently.

“Do you ever get to change the channel?” I’d asked Kevin.

“Yeah they come with a remote in the box” “No, sorry, I meant in the store?”

“No I..”

Dad disappears from every screen.

Spinning umbrellas then chinese bicycles in the rain.

Sensing a presence we wheel around. Well over six foot, this man mountain of polyester suit and comfortable shoes (i bet he never feels his toes) looms in front of us, TV remote in hand. He looked pretty pleased with himself. More pleased with himself than you’d expect,
“I think you’ll find the channel changing is up to me son”
This bloke pushed a button on his hand held.

It looks like an awful smell had been released. Everybody’s noses are turned up into the air or covered with coloured handkerchiefs. The year is in the 1980s.

It was a full bummer for one guy as he’d only just arrived at the summer house at the bottom of the majestic lawns, now everyone will think he was the cause of the pong.

Silently, towards the back of the room, near the window that’d he’d already checked and didn't open stands Bruce Springsteen looking real nervous-like. He knew it was only a matter of time before they realise he been both the one who had first smelled it (‘geeeeez who cut rug’) and the one had dealt it.
In a vain attempt to fit in Bruce reaches to his back pocket for a red handkerchief he was sure was there. Fuck, he thinks as his hand comes to rest on the contents of the pocket, its a god damn baseball cap, he’s sure to be discovered.

The photographer takes the picture, Born in the USA.


David Dickinson in Bargain Hunt


A ruddy brown conker


Hearth stand in the shape of a dog

Kevin isn’t here any more, he’s gone to the checkout area to checkout the area, i think he was uncomfortable and he was done being helpful.

Volume increases by two

If the security guard was interested in the hearth stand, now getting a closer inspection from the team’s expert, he wasn’t showing it. It had become pretty obvious he wanted to talk about this special job he’d had bestowed upon him.

Volume increases by two Decreases by one

The security guard strains his eyebrows and forehead creaking, Principal McVicker.

Up two Down three



‘OK, so what’s the deal with the controller?’

A jib shot over a young crowd wearing neon wristbands heads towards the band. It’s the end of the millennium. AJ has that hat on again, leopard print and full of shit. They’d said not to wear it, motherfucker.

“Mother fucker” that’s exactly what Brian had said. “I hate that thing” said Howie.
“I guess he wants it that way” Nick, idiot.

“You look bad” Kevin.

As traffic moves on Times Square Brian goes through the motions. For Shelley, coming all the way from Iowa City this was it, forget her future graduation, passing the bar or the birth of her son, front row on TRL? she’d made it, gap toothed, toting the album sat next to Allison with the scarf. This was it.

Pushed from the back, low down over the eyes AJ’s hat sits crooked, falling forward on his head. Mysterious was the intention, sleeping farm hand would have been the outcome if it weren’t for the velour leopard print finish. Shiny velvet always disappoints.

With a sigh of relief the security guard got what he’d wanted, interest. ‘We’re trusted with the handset as we mean no harm.’ He said pretty weirdly.

As Brian feels a brush on his shoulder he thinks AJ is off on his hippy shit again, feeling the music, flailing around. A poke to the back of the neck brings Brian to realise this is not just his regular bullshit. That’s no flailing, that’s the hat.

Inflating at an ever increasing rate the hat is four foot across by now. Could be Helium but the best guess is Egon, a gas made entirely devoid of humility.

The hat, stretching and stretching, leopard spots spreading, deformed and unrecognisable as the velour takes the strain of the gas building up inside.

I was torn. Between this strange man, almost vibrating with anxious power and the bizarre TV programs I was finding it hard to concentrate.

Meeting a lighting rig, a lattice of aluminium, the hat continues to inflate. Pressure building, material pushes between the pipes. Squeezing like play dough odd protrusions bulge and continue growing through the rig.

The backing track is still playing but the boys have stopped singing, obstructing the camera the hat stole the show. Why sing when the tape isn’t rolling?

Proper tension.

Glancing away from the screen for a second towards the guard he was barely watching the many repeated screens, more so taking a distinct interest in the back left corner of my head. You got the impression he’d seen this one many times before.

Not sure what to expect at this point, the hat still on his head, AJ shifts in his high stool. The smallest shift, minute in the grand scheme but just enough to end it all. Too close to the stage lights the hat catches the hot rim of a spot.

Up in flames.

Credits roll.

Chinese bicycles in the rain.

Simultaneously every screen blips out, cut to black, line then dot, just like the old CRT ones used to do. Turning to the left the guard has gone, Kevin’s left the help desk. I guess it’s time to leave.

We do.

The credits roll.